


Samhain

by MemoryCrow



Category: Eragon (2006), Labyrinth (1986), Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Dark, Dark Fantasy, Demons, Dom/sub, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Marking, Oral Sex, Porn, Power Exchange, Power Play, Rough Sex, Scent Marking, Scents & Smells, faerie - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-11 00:32:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12311106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: This is in response to a request from Brokensoul, who needed smut and darkness involving Rumplestiltskin, Durza and Jareth.For a hilarious take on those three, a snarkfest of unrepentant evil, check out Brokensoul's Three Villains Walk into a Bar: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12132003You won't be disappointed. It takes Jareth's idea that, really, he asks for little... and runs with it. :)





	Samhain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brokensoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokensoul/gifts).



Jareth was an instigator, a motivator and designer. His mind was fae and quick and often dark, yet immature in the manner of a child who stomps his feet, who pouts and demands, _I want it_. _Give_ it.

His turn of thought, pricked by a thorny tendril of wayward desire, took him to a Dance of the Dead. A Festival of Souls, such ragged tatters as the fae might recognize. The Wheel of the Year turned, and he allowed it, without manipulation.

Invitations were sent. They were sent by magically engineered and animated origami-like birds made of creamy paper. The birds arrived at their destinations, unfolded themselves and fetched.

… Unto a night of fetches.

 

 

 

Many arrived in the dark of night… the fae, the hybrid, the changelings, the odd… those who were largely out of step with most worlds.

Jareth, in full, Goblin King regalia, sprawled over his throne of tooled leather and horn, bone. He tapped one thigh with a riding crop. He grew impatient. The princeling within was as yet antsy, unappeased, his appetite sharpened with waiting. Around him statues of horned gods glowered, antlers menaced.

Finally, they arrived; first one, then the other. His playmates of old.

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin swaggered. His glitter was subdued. He wore black and crimson, the colors of death and of life, and Jareth felt suddenly gaudy, somewhat unmanned in his royal blue and dove grey.

Under the flickering faerie lights, Rumplestiltskin’s skin waxed and waned from a muted, mossy green to buff earth tones. Here and there, light glimmered over mica. His eyes were like a lynx, a snow leopard; polished gemstones. Jareth sat up straight and tracked his weave in and out of crowds. He watched the crowds move, in subtle ways, to allow the Imp his path.

Then came Durza. As if they’d coordinated beforehand, girls on a night out, he also wore black and crimson. But then, that was Durza’s thing… he seldom varied his presentation.

Although Rumplestiltskin was the Dark One, he could move without causing alarm when he wished. He could dazzle with his wardrobe and wealth, distract others from his obviously corrupt nature…. He could quiet his demeanor, or amp it up with silliness. He could keep his hands to himself, and often seemed to prefer that mode, disliking the touch of others. He could smile without baring his teeth, and greatly deceive his audience.

Not so, Durza. The Shade could hide nothing of his nature, and it agitated Jareth with excitement. He felt the corner of his mouth curl into a contemplative smile… he felt his gloved hand begin to stroke the riding crop.

Durza’s eyes were blood red, a dark wine. His hair was the same color, hanging at a witchy length. His dark clothing was a snakeskin pattern of armor, his cloak long and deeply red. His skin was ghostly… bone pale, and it caught liquid light with intricate scarring, courtesy of being among the demon-ridden.

He enjoyed baring his teeth. They were sharp and frightful, as Rumplestiltskin’s were dark and frightful. Jareth saw that the two, at a distance from one another, were nevertheless aware of each other. They were like cats, ears turning, whiskers twitching…. Tails swishing. How could they fail to have the awareness?

Each one had once been human, a condition Jareth little understood. Each had sought to control a spirit, and was now one with it. Both, in a strange and deviant manner, had been seduced by spirit. It melded to them, altered them… it made sorcerers of each.

Standing, Jareth’s grin was broad and happily malevolent. His nostrils flared.

Humans were mysteries. Workings of spirit, he understood. Seduction by dark forces… magic. He could see into the architecture, the machinery of such things, and he understood the corruption of that machinery.

He’d missed being among the like-minded. He’d missed being _seen_ beyond the symbol of himself… being known.

 

 

 

Arriving at the dance hall, Durza’s senses became overwhelmed. He was sensitive to _everything_ … the night air on his skin, the glances of others, felt like touch. He felt the presence of the dead, those wraiths the dance either honored or kept at bay. He felt the lonely, silent howl of forgotten gods, lost and moving aimlessly over a land of crumbling stone and deep ravines.

The dance hall was dark with shadows, but alive with glittering and twinkling lights that played over every sort of creature and mask. The masks were tradition; costumes either hid one from the dead or startled them away. Or the costume greeted the dead, showing them the face of one’s internal landscape, recognizable.

He had no need of a mask.

In every corner, on every surface were mounds of Stargazer lilies and bundled bunches of roses, dark red and blushing pink. Each put out a scent that was both funereal and sexual. It was thick… the hall was thick with the scent, as well as with a woodsy, dark green scent of smoking, ashy incense. A more natural green, a sharp sap, came from abundant garlands and boughs of fir.

Durza felt it, _tasted_ scent in his throat, upon his tongue. Behind barely parted, pale lips, his tongue pressed to the backs of his teeth, scenting in a reptilian way.

He scented, also, his brother in spirit. Rumplestiltskin, the spinner and weaver, the trickster Dark One, so fond of contracts and negotiations. The Dark One always smelled of his magic… honey, wood-smoke and the scent of an approaching storm. It was narcotic, more subtle than the overly sweet, yet hypnotic scent of the dance… it’s undercurrent of bitterness. It made Durza’a tongue swell with a need to ferret out more of the scent; to gulp it down.

Jareth… was another thing, altogether. The brat. He was a wily thing, a wild thing that wanted discipline. He was cocky, cocksure… look how he displayed the thing, an attention-getting, shape-specific bulge between his legs… he could be naked.

Durza scented him… he took all things, all beings in through hyperactive senses. He felt Jareth on his tongue and skin; fire and ashes, crushed rose. Oiled leather, white cakes and icing made with currants. In many ways a sweet boy, but a rotten boy…. With an odd, moldering after-whiff of goblin, like mushrooms growing from wet, dying wood.

Jareth descended his dais, riding crop tapping the planked side of his thigh and color high on his sculpted cheeks. Durza arrived before him in the same moment as Rumplestiltskin. The three regarded one another… next to the darker pair, Jareth looked human. It was a great deception.

“Boys.” Jareth said. His voice, amused, curled in on itself, a courtly baritone. It caused a subtle twitch of lip on his friends.

Durza inclined his head, but Rumplestiltskin, ever the shrewd and sarcastic observer, said, “ _Mordred_.” Breaking his composure, he gave a sweepingly low bow. It mocked.

Jareth flashed a sudden grin. The bones of his face, as all of his bones, were elegant, but the smile was redolent of skull. It was nearly as terrible as the Shade and the Dark One. His smile turned down at the corners, like a frown… it tickled and bothered those who suffered from a darker turn of thought. It haunted and instigated.

 

 

 

“Gods, you’re impatient.” Rumplestiltskin murmured.

Jareth made a mewling sound, his hips straining. So, he was a king…. In this moment, it meant little. He was a pup, a whelp, an urchin… he was stripped of his fine clothes and Durza’s sorcery had him restrained, without rope or bindings. He was laid out, as if for a feast. As if upon an altar… they had him stretched upon a heavily carved, dark-wood table.

The sight, erotically religious, inspired Rumplestiltskin. He snapped his fingers, and in the aftermath of the smoky scent of his magic, there came the scent of the flowers from the great hall. They surrounded Jareth… he lay in clusters of roses and lilies, and the sticky stamens of pollen-heavy lilies seeped as his cock seeped, full and drum-taut and doleful. It put off heat, as did the scent of the flowers.

The flowers, the smoke… the wild, dragon-hot scent that came off of Durza, that spilled from his merlot hair… it was all heart-wrenching. It twisted, it squeezed, as Rumplestiltskin might do, hand holding heart. It was a scent of sexual enslavement, and Rumplestiltskin felt his blood throb with it.

As if practicing a mystical, healing art, Durza moved his hand over Jareth’s body. It hovered, as dark-nailed as Rumplestiltskin, a scant few inches from Jareth’s skin. He did not touch the Goblin King, but Jareth reacted, all the same. His brows knit, his forehead poetic with tension. His lithe, pale body flexed and writhed, devastating where bones made themselves known… the hollow and ridge of hipbones, the arc of ribcage…. The sculpture of cheekbones and the anguished stretch of jaw.

Durza’s not-touch sent rippling sensations through Jareth, both of pleasure and pain. His fingers and long toes clenched and flexed; his hips rocked.

Rumplestiltsin watched, quietly marveling over Jareth’s skin. It was so pale, so perfect. Like marble or mother-of-pearl, sneaky colors moved beneath its surface. It showed every mark, every blush, every urgency of thought or blood. His wide nipples were darkened with rough touch, his cock reddened and tormented in its long stretch to his navel. His balls, full and aching, denied release, were an even ruddier color.

His body was covered in red marks, courtesy of his own riding crop. Before long, Rumplestiltskin knew, his skin would show bite marks, maybe blood. Livid suck marks. Hunger was a live thing in the darkened room, growing by the moment.

Rumplestiltskin and Durza, spirit-ridden, were very changed. The spirits that married themselves to DNA, to cells and blood, mapping bone and brain, changed their skin, eyes…. Their thoughts and feelings. They were themselves, but they were also the wild dark; the untamed, unilluminated night, and all that writhed there, unchecked.

Though far from innocent, Jareth – in contrast – was pure. He was pureblood fae, ridden by nothing, driven only by his own impulse. His own ego. His magic was formidable, but his darker brothers could overwhelm him.

It was what he wanted.

They could snatch him out of the Kairos time in which he lived, and pin him to a moment. They pinned him, a butterfly in a gristly collection.

Durza’s hands rose as if he conducted an orchestra, and Jareth’s knees obeyed, making a slow rise until they were pressed back to his torso. Open, exposed. In disgrace, graceless. He was in a wide-legged spread, lips parted and face flushed, and his chest rose and fell. Anticipation warred with humiliation… his blush deepened as Durza and Rumplestiltskin tsked over him, sharing low chuckles and murmurs; softly rude commentary. Durza decided on a new use for the riding crop, first prodding it past Jareth’s lips, the bone-barrier of his teeth.

Obligingly, meeting the quiet approval in their voices, Jareth sucked the handle of the very object he often used to keep others in line. He closed his eyes and groaned… he tried to get it as slippery-wet as he could, knowing what was to come. His efforts made him drool, and that was met with more tsking, more soft murmurs. It was hard to know when his playmates would hurt or when they would pet… it kept Jareth high strung.

If only they would disrobe. The Dark One and the Darker One both wore their black and red… their boots tapped or rang out on stone. Jareth knew they could be monsters; blazing eyes and awful teeth, fits and bursts of tantrums. But they were both oddly solemn. Their faces, masks made by magical design, were stone. Eerily still, light playing over deeply hooded eyes, the slope of cheekbones… a soft pouting of bottom lips.

They were dressed, concealed. They _played_ him.

Durza took the crop from his mouth, and soon enough it became an insistent thing at his hole. He felt himself contract, an involuntary spasm, and Durza purred, “Mmm..” He made his fingers gentle… they played there, a warm tease, before he returned the crop to its purpose.

Jareth had been transgressed before… a violation he invited, needing the intensity, the vulnerability into which he was plunged. Even so, his body always resisted. He tried to draw even breaths, to somehow relax his belly, which was tense and fluttering. He shifted his pelvis, then felt a blaze burn down his middle as Rumplestiltskin smiled at the action.

When the thing was _in_ , in and making a slow thrust, Rumplestiltskin asked, “Do you like that, dearie?”

Jareth didn’t answer. It was clear that he did. His breath hitched and his hips rocked; he rode the crop, meeting Durza’s shallow thrusts. He needed more… to be stretched, to feel an edge of panic. He needed to be taken out of himself, so that he was mindless, heedless of the sounds he made… of how he was abused; observed.

Durza kept up the thrust, and his dark nails made light scratches up and down the back of one of Jareth’s thighs. Still watching Jareth, Rumplestiltskin picked up one of the lilies. He briefly caressed his own face with the dewy petals, a sight that riveted Jareth. His mismatched eyes were locked onto the Imp… the lily was possessed of a scent so close to sex, untried and adolescent, it got inside Jareth. It was a wriggling thing in his veins, making his pulse erratic.

Rumplestiltskin began to stroke the lily over his torso; a feathery, soft touch. It marked him even more… the lily’s pollen smeared over his skin, making stains of bright, saffron-yellow. The scent, fresh and yet musk-sweet, covered him. It marked him for the watchful dead, who fed from the intensity of all he felt. The Imp teased the petals over his drooling cock, his afflicted balls… the petals, in their innocence, tickled down to his perineum, meeting up to the degradation of the crop.

It was too much… he was too sensitive there, his body awash and awake with pleasure-pain; his opening burned. Jareth gasped, an electric surge running through his body and lighting imagery in his head. He felt himself clamp down on the crop, and a chill of goosebumps moved over him in a river. His nipples hardened to tight puckers, and he threw his head back, moaning as his cock jumped on his belly, its leak desperate.

It was too much for Rumplestiltskin as well. He lost composure. He used magic to move Jareth up the flower-bedecked table, so that his head dangled from the end. The Imp was good enough to support the back of his head, cupping with one, big hand. With the other, he undid his trousers.

Jareth waited. Upside-down, his eyes were hungry. His hips rode steadily, taking the crop, Durza’s thrusts. He felt heat on his face, took in the intensified scent of sex… he also took in an indelicate scent of black smoke and cracking, spitting flames… 

it came from both men. He opened his mouth wide, jaw stretched, and was fed the full, mushroomed head of Rumplestiltskin’s cock.

His mouth was fucked. It was rough, it took his breath. It gagged him at times, and Rumplestiltskin pulled back for only a moment… then filled him once more. His head was cradled; Rumplestiltskin’s other hand came to his throat. It caressed, and sometimes squeezed. The hand moved over his jaw, cupping it, feeling the way it worked as he struggled and sucked. It caressed his face… and then slapped him.

It wasn’t a hard slap, but it stung. Heat blazed; Jareth felt his skin welt. The slap and the force of the cock in his mouth, the intrusion of it, made tears prick the corners of his eyes. He made a muffled sound, breathing hard through his nose. Salt-tears leaked from beneath his eyelashes, flush to his cheeks, and ran backwards, down the sides of his temples and into his hair.

“Too much, dearie?” Rumplestiltskin panted, breathless.

It was never too much. Jareth only moaned, his tongue pressed to velvety skin, to a slightly bitter, silky taste of pre-cum at the cleft.

He felt the crop taken away and felt obscenely open, agape. The table creaked as Durza climbed onto it, and the Jareth felt the softer, broader feeling of Durza’s cock pressed to his hole.

His moan was loud, the wantonness of it unspeakable. He wanted to be filled, filled up and used. He wanted to be a plaything, a fuck-toy for the two sorcerers. He wanted his powers obliterated, given to them.

He wanted to be adored, and to disappear within the adoration. He wanted to be a demon’s favored consort.

Durza was a heavy pressure, hands on the backs of Jareth’s thighs. Rumplestiltskin slid from his mouth, and Durza claimed it, cutting off Jareth’s whine of protest to be bereft of cock.

For a few moments, Jareth was lost in a red haze of voluptuous, luxurious sensuality. It was different from the preceding moments… time slowed. It did so without his input. He became a separate creature from all his race… he belonged to the spirits, to the demons.

Durza kissed him, a soft nuzzle of lips, lush and heady. His hair fell around them, a soft tickle, scented with magic and dragons, soot and fire. Just as soft, his tongue invaded. It touched to Jareth’s, and nerve-endings shrieked messages that had become utterly confused as to what was pleasure and what was pain. Both men moaned, but then Durza was gone, and it was Rumplestiltskin who kissed him.

Jareth closed his eyes… he felt the growl in Rumplestiltskin’s chest as he kissed, more aggressive than Durza.  He felt Durza’s fingers, slippery and inside him, and his mouth – wet and so hot – at his cock. Between kisses, Rumplestiltskin gave him soft praises… telling him he was _good_ , a good boy, a sweet kitten. Jareth was strung tight between them, his body a live wire.

Then Durza was back, Jareth once more open, lewdly displayed, the air on his vulnerable parts strange and intimate. He gazed, docile and nearly drugged, as Durza and Rumplestiltskin kissed, their faces just over his. He would drown in heat, he would drown in scent… the scent of ghosts, of innocence defiled; of syllabub, rue and dragons.

Time began to move again, coming out of its dream. Durza resumed his place over Jareth, his cock pressing, an unyielding, wet seeking push against his hole. Rumplestiltskin again held his head; he fed his cock into Jareth’s open, willing mouth.

After a few insistent moments, Durza was _in_. He took possession. Jareth gave a long moan, muffled and nevertheless hot with desire. Durza began to move, to thrust, each thrust sparking a fiery pleasure deep in Jareth’s belly, in his pelvic floor. Rumplestiltskin thrust as well, and Jareth began to lose himself. He felt as if he was lit, his body lit up and glowing from the inside, a line of molten, liquid fire riding him from brain to balls, hallowing him, melting his insides. He felt both loosened around Durza’s cock, another liquid feeling, but also as if his body was bearing down, squeezing tighter and tighter.

Rumplestiltskin slapped him again, and there was something about it… being slapped even as he sucked, that brought a fresh rush of tears… not sad, but helpless. The slap stung, and then Rumplestiltskin’s thumb was soft on his lips, feeling where he was suckled.

“I don’t like pretty boys.” Rumplestiltskin whispered, his breathing harsh, affected. His rhythm began to match Durza’s. “I like _messy_ boys, dearie. Feral brutes, put in their place.”

He slapped again, then the punishing hand moved over Jareth’s torso, moved back to his throat. _Feral_. It was what Rumplestiltskin called faerie… wild boys and girls. Jareth was, indeed, messy. He was put in his place, and held there.

Durza’s hand closed on his aching cock, his thumb sliding over the slippery cleft, and Jareth went blind with brilliant light. The howl in his chest was hampered by the heady, lush cock in his mouth… his mouth opened wide, too overcome to suck as his body exploded, emptied in spastic spurts on his belly. His belly trembled and his limbs shook, and his tears threatened to become sobs of relief.

Pulling out, Rumplestiltskin rubbed his cock against the heat of Jareth’s face, where he was abused and reddened. He came, an acrid taste of saline and sex, marking Jareth’s face and chest. His hand squeezed even more tightly around Jareth’s throat, perhaps a reflex. Durza still fucked, his teeth gritted and thrusts hard, and the squeeze on Jareth’s throat somehow made the friction articulate and feverish. Jarred by something like beauty, staring fixedly at Jareth in his debauched state, Durza moaned and went rigid. His mouth opened, his eyes fluttered closed and he pumped and emptied into Jareth.

For long moments, no one spoke. The room, in Jareth’s perception, had seemed unbelievably noisy. It was filled with voices, some of them spilling out of his head. It was filled with moans and harsh breath, the sounds of bodies slapping together and with wet, slurping, sucking sounds.

Suddenly, it was hushed. It was breath, alone. There was a distant sound of music, strings and a drum – like a pulse. Far away, dogs barked and howled in the night, pestered by ghosts. Jareth was still held, suspended, between two dark entities, his head cradled, his legs draped over Durza’s arms. He was loathe to open his eyes.

When he did, his sight was enhanced by his race, his feral nature. He’d been hyper-vigilant to present a calm exterior, to not reveal the things his darker eye could see, but… now… He’d been torn asunder, and could hide very little. He couldn’t hide the workings of his body… Durza’s seed that spilled from his hole, a feeling of childish insecurity when Durza pulled out of him. He couldn’t hide all he’d allowed to happen to his body… the messiness Rumplestiltskin liked.

He saw fox spirits capering around Durza, and scented their vixen heat. He saw an unknowable darkness around Rumplestiltskin; it reached with feelers, like tentacles. It tested and tasted all in its path… it caressed him, and smelled of rosewood and camphor. Wormwood and bloodroot.

Slowly, he sat up, muscles protesting. He looked down, taking in the sight of his naked body, the strewn and wrecked table. His jaw ached. His hole ached, and – unbelievably – still wished to be filled.

He was an instigator; he could always get what he wanted. He was a wild thing that wanted discipline. The naked bodies of demons who had taken him re-sparked his excitement. His vision began to clear… he could see them more clearly. Sliding from the table, he padded to Rumplestiltskin and embraced him from behind. Smiling at Durza over the Imp’s shoulder, he asked, “Is that all you’ve got, gents?”

He _felt_ the extravagant roll of Rumplestiltskin’s eyes… he also felt the quickening of his blood.

Looking at the two of them, Durza smiled. His cock, still long and flushed, jumped a bit.

He liked to bare his teeth.

 

THE END


End file.
